


Feathers and Wings

by DarkSide (Dark_Side)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley help each other, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, Kindness, Slight trust issue, Some time after Eden, Swearing, Wings, Wings Grooming, but before Mesopotamia, but not heavy swearing, itchiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-06 12:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Side/pseuds/DarkSide
Summary: Crawley's wings are itching and the demon is going to get insane.Maybe a cute angel can help him out?





	1. Feathers and Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Desclaimer: I do not own Good Omens nor its characters and I am writing just for fun and to spread love and fluff.  
English is not my first language, all mistakes are mine. Feel free to point them out, it really helps me write better.

They are itching. Itching, itching itching.

Crawley is annoyed by how much his wings are itching and there is no way he can scratch them in the right spots. He needs help, but he is stationed on Earth, with the first humans still struggling to survive and he cannot go back to Hell and ask for help.  
Not that he would do it, even if he could. He does not trust other demons with a delicate matter such as his wings. He would not trust a demon with delivering a stupid flower, either.

Crawley cannot ask humans for help either, for they are still easily frightened by anything and Crawley would really prefer avoiding getting discorporated by some random human who freaks out at the sight of his wings.

Itching. Itching, itching itching.  
They are itching so much.  
Almost unbearable.

Trees. Woods. Bears scratch their backs against trees. Maybe it could work with wings too.  
There is nothing else he can do, so Crawley walks into the nearest woods and looks for a good, safe place to scratch his wings.

Walking in the woods is as tricky as he remembers. He stumbles on a root, hands shoot out to the nearest tree, but they slid on the trunk, and Crawley smashes his face on the muddy ground.  
“Oh dear Earth…” The curse sounds badly on his tongue. Crawley gets up on his knees, his hands hurt and scratched.  
“For Eden’s sake…” This curse is bad as well. His hands are covered in blood and Crawley sighs with disappointment.  
He rises on his feet and walks deeper in the woods.

He finds a nice place, a huge tree with a rough trunk and enough space around for Crawley to open his wings.

They are itching. Itching, itching itching.

Crawley should take his wings out, but he hesitates. He does not want to see them. But the itching is unbearable.  
Why on Eden does he still have wings? What is the point of having them and having them itching?  
“For Earth’s…” Crawley stops mid-sentence as the curse does not sounds right yet.  
He closes his eyes and unfurls his wings in the material plan. They are itching even more, and Crawley crashes his back against the huge trunk. He scratches the best he could, tries to reach the spots that are bringing him on the edge of insanity.  
A blood feather bents the wrong way but Crawley stops moving too late. The blood feather snaps with a loud crack and Crawley whimpers.  
“Stupid, stupid trunk!” He slams a fist against the trunk and some wood splinters sting his skin.  
The itching has not stopped yet, his hand hurts and his wings are bleeding.  
Why on Eden does he still have wings and need to groom them when there is no-one, absolutely no-one, on the whole planet he can trust with it?  
Is it a sort of sick jokes of God?  
Wings grooming was so easy when he was still an angel: he could simply ask anyone to help him out.  
But now, he can only scratch his back against a trunk like a bear and hope he does not completely destroy his plumage in the process.

His wings are still itching, the broken feathers hurt a bit and Crawley’s hands do not reach the right spots. He bents his wings and his back, scratches against the trunk but it is all wrong. Other blood feathers break, more blood streaks his wings, the itching is bringing him on the verge of insanity, and his plumage is in disarray.  
Crawley sits on the ground, his wings and back hurt, and he gives a look at his blackened wings.  
Ugly.  
He closed his wings around himself, some feathers get stuck together in an annoying way, and he starts preening them.  
Ugly.  
Black and ugly.  
His primaries are askew and damaged, two feathers of his left wings are completely useless. He should moult them soon, but moulting means new blood feathers, which means pin feathers, which means more itchiness.  
Plumes are ruffled and new blood feathers are growing, adding to his discomfort.  
Oh, good Eden… (still sounds awful as a curse), he made a huge mess of his wings.

*******

Humans are incredible, to say the least: they are struggling to survive forests, deserts, plains, they try to understand plants and animals and objects and find a way to make everything easier on them. They have just managed to make rudimental knives and have succeeded in making fire.  
Maybe the ineffable plan will let them survive.  
Aziraphael smiles, happy for the little progresses humans are doing and secretly curious to see what good may come.

He leaves the small settlement he is guarding, helped by some spot-on miracles, and goes into the woods to admire some wildlife. He loves everything She created, and he wants to see it all.  
He walks carefully in the woods, moving around the long branches that get in his way, and double checking not to step on any insects or animals living on the ground. A hummingbird sings and he raises his gaze to catch a glimpse of the colourful plumage of the bird.  
Aziraphael can sense it nearby, but the foliage his too dense. The angel walks around the trees, his eyes fixed on the branches, but he never finds a place to admire the hummingbird.  
He sighs, sits on the roots of a giant tree and stares at the ants walking up and down the trunk. Among the branches of the tree in front of him, a squirrel runs back and forth, stops near some leaves and gathers some fruits for the dinner. The squirrel is anxious for the upcoming mating season, and excited to meet the young beautiful female squirrel he has met a couple of times.  
Aziraphael should not do it, but he snaps his finger and blesses the little creature with good luck.  
The squirrel’s anxiety lessen and his confidence improves. Aziraphael’s smile grows wider and he hopes that squirrel will have a nice mating season.  
Aziraphael closes his eyes, sensing the woods with his true essence, to fully enjoy Her creation and fill his core with more love.  
The warm sun caresses his body through the foliage, trees are in perfect harmony with one another, animals are busy with their daily routine and everything is perfect and full of love.  
Apart for the dark and angsty feelings in the deepest part of the woods.

Aziraphael stands up abruptly and runs into the woods to see what kind of mischief a demon is doing deep into the woods.

What Aziraphael sees is not what he thought he would see.  
“Crawley?”  
The demon with long red hair and yellow snake-ish eyes looks at him with surprise written all over his face, as he stands up leaning against a huge tree.  
“Aziraphael? Why are you here?”  
The angel stutters some incoherent words, too bewildered by the sight in front of him. The demon does not seem to be doing anything evil at all. Yet, he could swear he sensed some trouble.  
“I thought there was some mischief going on here.”  
“No mischief right now, Aziraphael. Only a demon who wants to have some time for himself.”  
Crawley’s shoulder are tensed and there is still some angsty feeling lingering in the place.  
“Are you alright?”  
Crawley’s eyes widen and he bats his long eyelashes in surprise.  
“Is an angel worrying about a demon? Are you sure _you_ are alright?”  
Aziraphael shudders at the horrible smiles Crawley makes, but he notice the blood that taints his hands.  
“Whose is the blood on your hands?”  
For an instant, Crawley’s smile vanquishes, his eyes fill with terror and he presses his back against the tree.  
“Nobody’s.” He quickly answers but it is the worst lie ever told since the beginning of the universe.  
“Are you hurt?”  
Earth is a dangerous place to be for any living beings on it, angels and demons included. Aziraphael gets closer to the demon, who hisses back at him.  
“Don’t you dare come any closer or I swear I’ll ssssmite you!” Crawley hisses.  
“You would only discorporate me and I will be back in no time. But if you are hurt, I can help you.”  
Aziraphael frowns as soon as the words leaves his lips. He should not help a demon, he should kill him on the spot, right now.  
But Crawley would be back in no time and he has done nothing to deserve all the paperwork he will go through to have a new body.  
“You can help me?” Crawley’s voice is higher pitched in surprise, “Aziraphael, you should really go back to Heaven and have yourself checked up.”  
Aziraphael’s frown deepens as none of the conversation makes any sense at all.  
“I am only doing my job of spreading kindness and love and trying to avoid you some annoying paperwork that will never stop your kind from coming here to corrupt Her creation!”  
Aziraphael could happily go without being mistreated by a demon for his kindness. He already got reprimanded twice by his superiors and he will not take harsh words from someone who is less holy than him.  
“Then make a miracle for me and begone!”  
Crawley shouts and Aziraphael turns him his back and walks back from where he came.

*******

Crawley takes a deep breath as Aziraphael turns his back to him and goes away, but his wings itch even more than before and he is almost ready to rip them off just to make the itchiness stop.  
And the angel said he would help.  
“Aziraphael, wait!”  
The angel comes to an halt and speaks no word.  
Crawley should not ask. He really should not ask, but he is getting insane and could discorporate out of madness.  
Aziraphael starts walking again and Crawley rushes behind him.  
“Wait, just wait.” He says as he runs in front of the angel and blocks the other’s way out of the woods.  
“Why should I trust you?”  
The angel widens his blue eyes in surprise, “I am an angel. I have no use for trickery and deceit. You can trust me!”  
Crawley feels all his body crumbles at the grounds even though he is still standing.  
That angel could not be so naïve.  
“But I am a demon. Any other angel would kill me on sight!”  
“Well, any other demon would kill me too. But both of us have only be kind to each other as we met multiple times through the years.”  
Aziraphael’s words make some kind of sense, though it all could be just a magnificent trick.  
“You have never tried to harm me, I should at least treat you the same.”  
Honour. Respect. Of course, angels still have those qualities.  
“How did you get hurt?” Aziraphael asks.  
What is the worst thing that could happen by trusting the angel?  
Discorporation?  
Some paperwork?  
A Hell’s scold?  
At least he would not die forever.  
And the itch would stop.  
“I need to groom my wings.” Crawley states with a firm voice.  
Aziraphael’s mouth opens in a perfect “O” but he shut it abruptly and straightens his back.  
“No problem. I can help.” His smile is nervous and Crawley heart beats faster.  
“It is better if you sit down.” Aziraphael gestures to the big place where he has found Crawley.  
The demon does not move, still scared to turn his back to the angel.  
Aziraphael leads the way, sits down on the grass and taps on the ground.  
Crawley sits in front of him carefully and the angel smiles brightly.  
“I cannot help you if you do not bring your wings in this plan.”  
Aziraphael’s voice is soft, a hint of a joyful laugh creeps in his words.  
Crawley shifts uncomfortably where he sits, suddenly conscious that he has to show his wings to the angel.  
And they are black.  
Ugly.  
Fallen.  
Disgraceful.  
Bad.  
Maybe keeping the maddening itching is a better idea.  
“I know it is difficult to perfectly groom your wings here on Earth.”  
Aziraphael tighten his lips and his blue eyes are sad. And the sight is completely wrong.  
Hell can damn him if he let that angel be so sad.  
Crawley unfurls his wings in the material plan and stares at the angel. He does not winch at the sight but gets closer to him.  
Crawley hisses and slides backwards.  
The angel raises his open hands, “I am here only to help. And my wings are itching, too.”  
Crawley is caught off-guard and relaxes. Of course, the angel is as alone on Earth as he is. None of them has someone to ask help with grooming.  
Aziraphael’s hands are light and gentle on his wings. He starts with the primary feathers, sitting in a way Crawley can see every single movement of his.  
Aziraphael sets Crawley’s feathers in order, brushes them lightly with his fingertips and carefully works around the new blood feathers. He takes out the wood pieces tangled between feathers, working from the farthest to the closest to Crawley’s back.  
“Do you want me to pick your pin feathers? This one is mature.”  
Crawley’s eyes shoot open and he turns his head to the left to see what the angel is talking about.  
He has to stretch his neck backward and bent the wing lightly to see the pin feather ready to be opened. It is one of those spots that are maddeningly itchy.  
“Do it, please.” He moans and sighs as Aziraphael breaks the sheath and gently caress his skin.  
Oh Eden, this feels so good. Azuraphael works slowly and carefully through his feathers and plumes, always asks before opening the sheath of mature pin feathers, lightly scratches itchy spots, cleans and tidies every single plumes.  
It feels amazing.  
“Are you alright, Crawley?”  
The demons nods slowly, “Could you scratch me a little bit upward and left?”  
Aziraphael’s fingers moves slowly and Crawley stops him as soon as they brush the itchy spot. The angel ruffles the plumes and sighs.  
“It is a blood feather, Crawley. You know it is better not to touch it or it will hurt. You have already broken enough of them.”  
Aziraphael voice is sad and Crawley can sense how the angel’s sorrow for being unable to help more.  
“I know, I know. Wish I could just miracle the itchiness away.”  
A surge of joy suddenly bursts behind Crawley and the demon gets rigid and looks behind himself, ready to run away.  
But he can only see Aziraphael smiling happily.  
The angel’s fingers brushes the itchy point, the blood feather bents painfully and a fresh sensation brings the itchiness away.  
“What… what have you done?” Crawley yells and bents his wings away from the angel’s touch.  
“Only a miracle to make the itchiness go away.”  
Aziraphael’s voice is sweet and Crawley’s heart misses a beat. He relaxes his wings and lets the angel finishes taking care of them.

Aziraphael is truly kind and does not mention that his wings are black and awful, nor the little scars on his back. He scratches the places where his wings connect to his back and stops the bleeding of the blood feathers.  
When the last feather and plume are set in order, Crawley misses the angel’s hands on his wings. The itchiness is completely gone, and he can feel his wings being in top-notch condition.  
“Thank you.” He whispers with his eyes still closed. Eden… he would stay here in the middle of the woods with that angel taking care of his wings forever.  
“You’re welcomed.”  
Yet, the angel’s fingers leave him, and Crawley feels cold and hollow as if he was falling all over again.  
He folds his wings back in the ethereal plan and turns around to face the angel. He is round and soft, a bright smile on his lips lights up all his body.  
He is _love_.  
Crowley smiles to him back.  
“You said you need help with your wings too.” Crawley states.  
Aziraphael blushes and casts down his blue eyes on the grass. Such a naïve angel.  
“I cannot help you if you do not bring your wings in this plan.” Crawley parrots him and the angel chuckles.  
Aziraphael unfurls his wings in the material plan and Crawley looks at their brightness with awe for a moment. They are as beautiful as they were in the Garden of Eden.  
He shakes his head lightly and starts working on Aziraphael’s left wing, from the external to the internal feathers.  
“What do you find so funny in my wings?”  
The angel asks with a tense voice.  
“Nothing funny, angel. I just remember the first time I saw your wings in the Garden of Eden. You kept them in better condition back then.”  
_And he did not flinch away from Crawley nor his black fallen wings._  
_He offered shelter from the rain._

Crawley keeps working carefully, brushing every feather and plume, setting them right and cleaning them even from the tiniest speck of dust.  
“You are moulting too. Do you want me to open your sheaths?”  
“Yes, please, if it is not too great an inconvenience for you.”  
“No problem at all.”  
Crawley opens the sheath of the mature feathers and carefully clean the wing. He scratches the joint between the humerus and the ulnae of the wing and Aziraphael sighs happily.  
It is almost as the old times, when they were all one family living together and grooming was a bonding ritual to strengthen their relationships.  
Crawley chuckles lightly and he finishes with the white left wing that seems to shine in the woods and start working with the right one.  
“Why are you laughing?” Aziraphael asks out of curiosity and hums as Crawley brushes his plumes.  
“It is funny that we trust each other more than our side for grooming.”  
Crawley whispers softly and takes a leaf out of the wing.  
“It is funny indeed.”  
“A mature pin feather. Do I open it or you prefer to wait?”  
Aziraphael makes a hilarious pose to see the pin feather and nods.  
“Pick it. I should have already done it a while ago, but I could not reach it.”  
Crawley opens it and brush the new feather kindly, setting it right amongst the other.  
“You should be more careful of where you fly, angel: your wings are full of woods and leaves.”  
“Are you worried about my safety?”  
Crawley’s cheeks flush red and he is glad the angel cannot see him. He does not answer and finishes his job. When he is sure that every single feather and plume is in the perfect position and in top condition, Crowley scratches lightly Aziraphael’s back between his wings and smiles at the little happy sounds that escapes the angel’s lips.  
Crawley stops after a while and the angel looks pleased at his wings.  
“Thank you.” He stands up, folds his wings in the ethereal plan and shifts his weight from foot to foot.  
“We should go our separate ways now. I have work to do.” Crawley says and the angel nods.  
“Well, yes, of course. And this was only out of necessity, not something we should keep doing, or superiors could be very unpleased to find out we spent time together.”  
Rejection stings Crawley’s heart like a hell knife, but he should have seen that coming. But maybe, a little tempting could always be good on Hell’s payroll.  
“If you say nothing, no-one will know. And if you need help grooming again, you know how to find me.”  
The angel does not answer. He smiles, but his back is rigid, his face is tensed and nervous.  
“Goodbye, angel.”  
The angel nods again, turns his back to him and walks away.  
Aziraphael is really a naïve angel to turn his back to him.  
And Crawley is really a naïve demon to let an angel go away without killing them.  
The demon smiles and cannot wait to see Aziraphael again.


	2. Roses and Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some years later, a quite known angel and demon need help again with grooming their wings.
> 
> There are gonna be three swearwords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GIFT! WHO WANTS GIFTS? GIFT!  
This should not exist.  
But I was so overwhelmed by your comments and kudos that I decided to write another scene of wing grooming.  
I cannot promise it is going to be as good as the first one, but I'll do my best and I hope you all will enjoy it.  
So this is a gift out of love for all of you who have read the first chapter.
> 
> WARNING: there are swearword

Oh, Hell, not again.  
Not now.

Crowley stops in his tracks in the middle of Constantinople, people passes him by and look at the stalls and Crowley hates all of them.  
There is a spot on his back, right where his left wing attaches, that is itching slightly.

A man insults him, and Crowley makes a little miracle to ruin the next week of that human. The man promptly stumbles in his own feet and falls face first in the pavement. That does not lift Crowley’s mood, though.  
Crowley turns right at the first street he sees and pushes his back against the wall.  
_Stercore_.* Romans are really good with swearwords.

Why have his wings decided to start itching now? He was in Hell just a couple of days before. Not his favourite place to be, nor a place where he could find someone trusty to help him with grooming.  
Still, _stercore_.  
He finished preening his wings when he was in Hell, while waiting for the whole paperwork for his new body to be filled. His work may not have been perfect, but _stercore_ do his wings have to start itching right now?  
How long can he last before he gets mad?  
Last time he lasted one week and was on the edge of discorporating.  
Crowley does not want to go through that again. And sure as his damnation, he does not want to go back to Hell so soon.  
Crowley scratches his back to no avail. He has to take his wings out.  
Yet, he can wait. Just a little bit longer. A couple of days.

***

The marketplace is one of Aziraphale’s favourite places: it is full of life and shining, colourful things, spices, perfumes, instruments, everything that can elicit his physical senses.  
The angel walks slowly, follows the human flow from one vendor to the other.  
He stops at the stall of fruits. There is everything a man could desire: apples, bananas, dates, grapes, nuts – everything Aziraphale could desire.

Aziraphale buys some fresh grapes and dates, and tries not to think about the annoying itching feeling spreading from his wings.  
He should find a nice blind human and asks him to groom and ask no question. In exchange, he could heal their sight.  
Yet, the last time he did so, Heaven was pretty upset and sent him a note to express their displeasure for such actions.  
Well, he could just find a blind human and ask for help. No miracle needed.  
He pays the merchant with a radiant smile and waves his fingers, “Have a nice day and may your trade be prosperous.”  
His energy flows towards the man and, before the angel can stop it, a one-day blessing envelops the merchant.  
Aziraphale tastes one date and it is the sweetest he has ever eaten. It is worth any rude and threatening note Heaven may send.

His wings itches but he cannot show them in public, unless he wants a ruckus to occur. He did not like it the first time it happened, and he does not want to repeat the experience.  
He could go back to Heaven and ask for help, but he would surely be reprimanded immediately for his recent miracle. And if he can, he would rather avoid it.  
But the itching will only get worse in few days.  
Unless… he finds someone on Earth he can trust and will not cause an uproar in Heaven.  
Blind human it is!

Blind human is not. For Aziraphale cannot find a blessed blind human in all Constantinople. And it is strange, for he is pretty sure there must be at least a blind person in that huge city.  
Actually, there are blind people everywhere, some beg at street corners for some food and money, others live locked in their houses, some more works as Gods’ prophets. Yet, there is no blind person Aziraphale would turn to and ask for a little help and not feel guilty or terrified that something will go terribly wrong.  
Honestly, he is too kind to ask for a favour and give nothing in exchange.  
How could he ask and take, and give nothing in return?  
How could he use some disable human and disregard their condition?  
His wings are itching more and Aziraphale sighs in defeat: he will wait and hope the itchiness will someday stop.  
He knows deep down it will not stop, if he does not tackle the problem, but he cannot help hoping, since hope dies last and it is woven into his core.  
Aziraphale pops one of the few remaining dates in his mouth and strolls among the loud crowd of the marketplace, looking for something to distract himself.  


The itchiness is getting worse and Aziraphale has finished his grapes and dates, their sweet taste lingers on his tongue.  
They itch annoyingly. His back is rigid as an itchy spot on his right ulna becomes unbearable and he walks fast through the crowd, careful not to hit anybody in his rash actions as he heads home.

“Say it again to my face, _filius canis_!”**

Aziraphale flinches as he hears the insult. Because, really, there is no need for that kind of language.

“Well, since you seem a little deaf, _sir_, I would suggest you to less run after any pair of legs you see and find a charitable doctor to cure you. Of course, only if you can avoid running after their legs too.”

Aziraphale glances immediately toward the centre of the commotions. That voice sounds familiar, even though he has not heard it in a long time.

“How dare you? Do you know who am I?”

“Oh, I am sorry, sir, I have misunderstood your illness, for it is not deafness, but some kind of early senility that clouds your memory. Maybe, if you reduce the amount of alcohol you drink daily, you will remember who you are.”  
It is his voice.  
Aziraphale slides through the crowd that is gathering on the crossing on his left. Among them there are two men: one is short, has a round reddened face and black hair, the other smells of woodfire and roses and tries to get away.

“Crowley!” The man with roses among his long red hair turns to him and his shoulders tense more.

“Angel? What are you doing here?”

“I was enjoying the marketplace, when I heard the screaming. I hope you are not causing any trouble of yours.”

The demon shrugs his shoulder.  
“You know me better than that. If I were up for any mischief, I would tempt you with a new restaurant. My treat, would you come with me?”

“Is he a friend of yours? Your _muliebris patientiae scortum_, maybe?”***  
The short man yells and Aziraphale turns red in shame and casts his gaze down. He dares not speak to defence himself, for he cannot even phantom why someone would say such unpleasantries to anyone, let alone someone they do not know.  
The crowd breathes in sharply, startled by the insult as well.

The perfume of woodfire becomes thick and Crowley’s voice turns cold, “You should watch your tongue better and learn to know who you are talking to when you are drunk. Or, as I suggested you before, you should drink less.”  
A demonic miracle strikes the man with those words: his face turns green as he falls on his knees and pukes in front of everyone.  
The crowd makes sounds of disgust, some people starts laughing.

“If you will excuse me.” Crowley says and the crowd parts to let him through.

“Angel, I am sorry he was so mean to you.”  
The demon murmurs.

“Not your fault, though that was hardly necessary.”  
The two unearthly beings walks away from the crowd and mingle among the people in the marketplace.

“Are you alright, Crowley?”  
The demon nods, but his back is still rigid and Aziraphale senses that there still is something upsetting him.

“Are you sure? You seem quite nervous.” Aziraphale frets about him.

“Positive. Just want to get away from here.”  
They walk out of the marketplace side by side. 

***

Itching. Itching, itching itching.

Crowley grits his teeth as his wings itch more. He rolls his shoulders, but it does not help in the least.  
His legs are wobbly and he missteps, waves his arms around not to fall, but Aziraphale’s arms wrap around his body and still him.  
The angel’s blue eyes stare at him full with worry and _stercore_, that is plainly wrong.  
Crowley grins and chuckles a little. The angel does not seem reassured in the least and presses on the subject.

“It has been a while since the last time we met. How have you fared?”  
The angel is worried, and Crowley cannot bear it.

“I have been doing well, how have you been?” It is blatant lie but Crowley is good at telling them and Aziraphale seems to buy it.

“Good to know. I almost feared you got discorporated.”

Crowley chuckles lightly, “Are you worrying again about a demon? You should be more careful or your higher-ups will not be pleased.”  
Aziraphale stiffens as he looks away.  
_Stercore_.  
Crowley’s wings itch more.  
“Do they know about our meetings?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, “No, they know nothing, fortunately.”  
His voice is light but his shrouded by a gloomy aura and Crowley does not like it at all.  
“My offer is still valid, may I tempt you with a nice new restaurant?”

“Crowley, I have already told you, it is inappropriate!”  
Aziraphale’s voice is harsh and Crowley does not try to coax him to accept.

_Stercore_. His wings are itching madly.  
And Aziraphale rubs his hands together anxiously.  
There is something wrong with the angel and Crowley has to fix it. He is the only decent unearthly being Crowley does not dislike. And he is also the only being he could try to trust to help him with grooming his wings.

“I…” Aziraphale stutters something Crowley does not understand.  
He stops in his tracks, the street they are walking through is empty and they can talk almost freely.

“What is worrying you, angel?”  
Aziraphale blushes and stutters some more.

“We are safe here. Nobody is looking at us. Nobody will know.” His words do not seem to reassure the angel.

“My wings are itching.”

“Oh.” That is not what Crowley has thought the problem to be, but it is an uplifting news. At least it is not something worse.

“Would you come to my place? It is safe.”  
Aziraphale’s eyes widen in terror.

“Or we could go in a forest nearby, just like the first time. My wings are itching too.”  
Crowley do wish for the angel to accept. He loved their first and only grooming session and he would truly enjoy another one.  
The shy smile Aziraphale does, is the most beautiful thing Crowley has ever seen.

They walk leisurely out of the Constantinople, and enter the woods covering the northern hills.  
They go deep into the woods, Crowley follows the angel’s lead and turns time to time to make sure no-one is following them.  
Aziraphale comes to an halt in a clearing, where the sky can be barely seen through the foliage and birds are singing.

“This place should be fine for us.”  
The angel rubs his hands together, his back is rigid and Crowley makes a small smile to reassure him.

“Yes, this place should do.” Crowley sits down and pats the lush grass. He is nervous as well, even though he knows the radiant, kind angel better now and he knows he can trust him with grooming. He is not an alluring backstabber who is trying to win his trust to destroy him.  
The angel changes his weight on his feet and finally sits down on the only spot showered by sunrays.  
Crowley gets closer to Aziraphale as he slips down the upper part of his toga and unfurls his white wings in the clearing.  
_Stercore_.  
They are a mess.  
“You should take more care of your wings, angel!”

Aziraphale shrinks in his shoulders and Crowley bites his lips.

“But I will make them as perfect as the last time.”

“Thank you. I am so sorry to bother you with this task.”

Crowley gently moves around the angel’s feathers and plumes to remove the twigs and leaves stuck among them.  
He bats his lids twice as he takes out a piece of a nest and puts it down next to him.  
“Why do you always fly through woods?”

Aziraphale shrinks in his shoulders again.  
“It is the only place where I can use my wings. It feels nice to spread them once in a while.”  
His voice is melancholy, and Crowley can bet the angel has a faint smile on his lips.

Crowley unfolds his wings as well, the itching is worse but Aziraphale is right: it is nice to stretch his wings.  
Crowley finishes cleaning the angel’s wings and starts putting every single plume and feather in order.  
Aziraphale relaxes his back and sighs happily, his aura is calm and content.

“I must admit I worried a little in the last months when you were nowhere to be found. I thought something bad happened to you.”  
He whispers and Crowley’s hands still.  
He made the angel worry because he cared about his well-being.

“I had mischief to do, I could not tell you or you would have stop me.”  
It is a blatant lie the angel buys and Crowley feels a little guilty about it. But his last six months spent in Hell waiting for a new body are not one of his fondest memory.

“Was the little war up north your doing?” Aziraphale fidgets and Crowley almost yanks a feather.

“Not my style, angel. That was all humans’ doing.”  
Crowley’s voice is light, though his smile vanishes from his lips.  
He was too busy falling through the ceiling and avoiding to snap at Hastur who was so delighted by spouting hatred at him and mispronounced his name on purpose. And he likely convinced Hell to misplace Crowley’s paperwork for a new body to torture him a little longer.

“I know, I know. Please, accept my apologies for doubting you.”  
Crowley laughs at the formality.  
He has missed Aziraphale’s humour. Even though he is not sure the angel knows how hilarious his earnestness is sometimes.

“Why are you laughing?”

Crowley cannot answer as he bursts out laughing again, his fingers lay gently on the angel’s left wings.

“Nothing to worry about, angel.” He says as soon as he recovers his breath.  
His hands slide gently across the white soft plumage. A pin-feather is in disarray, but there is no blood in its sheath.

“There is a pin-feather ready to be opened, do I?”

“That would be lovely, Crowley.”

Aziraphale makes his name sound better than anyone else, more tempting than the demon is. Crowley finds himself liking it.  
He opens the sheath carefully and gently patted the wax away. The long feather unfurls beautifully between his fingers and he smiles fondly.  
He works slowly through Aziraphale’s wings, asking every time he finds a pin-feather ready to be open.  
When Aziraphale’s wings are white, perfect and pristine as the should be, Crowley scratches his back lightly. The angel shiver under his nails and fidgets funnily.

“Thank you, Crowley. You are very nice.”

Crowley clutches his hands quickly to his chest as if Aziraphale’s back burns. His wings fold back into the ethereal plan. He has never been called nice and surely he is _not_ nice. He is a demon, he cannot be nice.

“Are you alright, Crowley? Are your wings itching too badly?”

_Stercore._  
He made the angel worry again.  
“I am fine, though the itchiness is a little bit uncomfortable.”

“Let me take care of them.”  
The angel flaps his wings and makes them disappear. He turns to look at the demon and his smile reveals his perfect diamond-white teeth. Joy and love resound all around him.  
Crowley casts his eyes on the grass and steels himself not to run away from him. Aziraphale feels _good_ next to him, but it is _too_ good and _too_ soon after Hell. It unsettles Crowley.

“You know you can trust me with this, don’t you?” Aziraphale’s voice quivers.  
Crowley’s eyes shoot up wide open. Words fail him and he gives a temptative smile.  
_Stercore_. He still feels naked and weak like in Hell and his <strike>friend enemy</strike> angel is worried.

“Against my best judgement and my kind, I trust you with grooming my wings, angel.”  
Crowley shakes his head, his long red hair falls on his chest.

Aziaraphale leans towards him and touches his long hair. Crowley stiffens and his hearts beats faster, making his blood run and his muscle ready to flee or attack.  
Aziraphale puts one of the roses back on the top of his hair, braiding the stem with his red locks.  
“Here you go, looking splendid as always.” He smiles and Crowley lets go of his breath. He touches his head with his fingers and feels the roses are back in their right position.

“Thank you.”

“May I tend to your wings now? They must bother you.”

Crowley turns his back to the angel, opens the brooch that keeps his toga together and unfolds his black wings in the material plan.  
The itchiness grows stronger and he squirms a little, till Aziraphale’s warm hands touch his back and he stills.  
“There are only a couple of itchy blood-feathers that are maddening me.” Crowley says and he does not seem to be able to loose his back.

Aziraphale does not say anything. His fingers are light, warm and delicate on his feathers and Crowley closes his eyes slowly.  
“You have kept them very well.” There is something slightly off in the angel’s voice.

“I had some free time to preen them.”  
Crowley wishes he had not.  
Hell was… hellish, for a lack of a better word.  
If he can avoid it, he will never discorporate ever again.

“While you were busy with doing mischief?”

Crowley stiffens slightly and nods. The angel’s fingers are gentle on his wings and brush on one of the itching spots.  
“Yes, angel, right there.”

Aziraphale fingertips scratch slowly the spot among his primaries and set the itching feather better.  
“It is still a blood-feather, Crowley, I cannot open it.”

“I know, I know, angel, but this help.”

Crowley moans slightly as the Aziraphale runs his fingers among his plumage, open the sheaths of mature pin-feathers, and makes sure every single plumage is in the best position for comfort and flight.  
Soon the angel’s hands rub all the space where his wings connects to his back, and Crowley quivers and whimpers softly.  
His eyes shoot open as soon as the angel’s fingertips leave his back and Crowley turns immediately around.  
His wings feel pristine and the itchiness has completely disappeared.  
Crowley sets his toga right and closes the brooch on his left shoulder, making sure it is not upside-down.  
Aziraphale smiles fondly at him.

“Thank you for helping.” Crowley stands up and the angel hurries going back upon his feet.

“You’re welcomed. If I need help in future, may I bother you again?” Aziraphale rubs his hands together and Crowley cannot help but smile.

“Anytime, angel.”  
Aziraphale’s hands rest along his side, a wide bright smile appears on his face and erases all his anxiety.  
Crowley hopes this is the best moment and the best way to avoid going back to the city alone. He really does not want to be alone among people he cannot fully trust.

So he asks, “Are you sure you are not a little hungry, angel? It will be only a bite or two, no-one will ever know.”  
Aziraphale changes his weigh on his feet, then he nods and is smile his broader than before, “If you insist. Lead the way.”

As he leads the way back to Constantinople with the angel by his side, Crowley is sure this is the best day of the last two centuries.

Since not everyone knows Latin, here come the translations:

_*stercore_: shit__  
** _filius canis_: son of a dog  
*** _muliebris patientiae scortum_: that pretty much means “effeminate man who is (as loose as) a prostitute”.  
Yes, that man uses very offensive words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
Glad to see you survived this chapter.  
I hope it was not too bad.  
Any kind of comments is appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
I hope you enjoyed this little fanfic, and let me know what you thing of it.  
And yes, I am totally down with the idea of those two grooming each other's wings.


End file.
